


Halfway Up

by j_s_cavalcante



Series: Halfway Up [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, Hypothermia, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_s_cavalcante/pseuds/j_s_cavalcante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray wants to be eight and on his swing, he wants to stuff himself back into that dream right the hell now, because reality fucking <em>bites.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Halfway Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sprat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprat/gifts).



> Takes place during the events of Call of the Wild. The sequel is: [Hanging On](http://archiveofourown.org/works/57688).

 

Stanley’s swinging on his swingset, back and forth, back and forth, kicking his legs up as high as he can, till his stomach feels all funny and he feels that thing he just learned about—what’s it called? Gravity! Gravity, yeah, hauling him back down. He laughs and he pumps his legs again, trying to go higher. “Whee!”

 

Stanley is eight years old, and he’s always in motion. He climbs things, and he jumps off things, and he never walks anywhere, he only runs. Walking is for babies and smelly old people and walking is _boring,_ because it takes forever to get places when you only walk, and Stanley ain’t too patient, that’s what his dad always says, Stanley’s got to learn some patience.

 

Stanley hasn’t learned that yet; he runs everywhere and jumps into all sorts of stuff before he’s ready. He falls down some, but that’s okay, that’s part of the game, and he don’t hurt himself too much, just a scrape now and then. He tears the knees out of his dungarees regularly, and it drives his mom crazy always having to patch them.

 

Stanley wants to climb _mountains_ when he grows up. Really, he wants to _fly over _them. He wants to be Superman, and he pretends he is.

 

He doesn’t tell anyone about that. His dad says Superman is stupid.

 

“Ray. Ray.”

 

Somebody’s trying to get him to stop, but he’s having too much fun, even though, whoa, all of a sudden it seems to be winter, because it’s really, really cold, and he’s all bundled up, and that’s probably why he’s wearing boots, though…this is strange…when he tries to scrape his boots down into the rut under the swingset, he can’t quite reach the bottom, and his boots just whistle through the air, not touching any snow, not touching anything. Oh, well. He kicks his heels up again, and giggles. “Whee!”

 

“Ray.”

 

The voice is male, but it’s not his father’s and it’s not really stern, it just sounds worried. Ray giggles. Jeez, can’t a guy swing on his swingset in peace?

 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but he can’t quite figure it out.

 

Jeez. It was the “Jeez” part. He didn’t say that word when he was eight. He didn’t really hear people talk like that back then—well, he did, is the thing, but he didn’t pay attention to it. He said “Jesus,” and he only said it respectful, like his mom taught him.

 

He tries to think about that, but that thing, that gravity thing’s got him, and it’s pulling him back down. Now his stomach feels really, really funny, like he’s maybe going to puke, and then someone’s shaking the swing, trying to get his attention.

 

He realizes his eyes are closed and he gets them open just a teensy bit, squinting into the wind, which bites his exposed face like a bitch, and he sees…

 

Nothing but stars. Bright stars in a sky so clear and black that he wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t here seeing it. There doesn’t seem to be anything below him, either, and he’s not thinking about that, he is _not_ going to think about the nothing down there and how he could fall into it.

 

And eight-year-olds, they don’t say “bitch,” either—well, the eight-year-old he was didn’t say it; he’s not vouching for some of the kids today on the mean streets…

 

Oh. Right, he’s not eight. He’s not really on a swingset, he’s on a real mountain, and he hasn’t been Stanley for almost thirty years.

 

“Ray.” Somebody whaps him on the head.

 

It’s Fraser. Of course. Fraser’s hand is on the swing—um, the sling, the, uh…what the hell is this thing called? Oh, yeah, a hammock. Fraser’s hand is jostling Ray’s hammock a little and he’s the one who’s been trying to pull Ray out of his dream.

 

Fuck.

 

Out of his dream means onto the real mountain, the real, icy peak where they’re probably going to die, him and Fraser, on the trail of the killer of Fraser’s mother. Said killer is a Very Bad Guy who shot up Chicago with a grenade-launcher and who is planning to kill half of Canada with poison gas, and Fraser’s got to stop him.

 

And Fraser’s not going to get there in time if he has to stop for anything, even burying Ray.

 

Ray wants to be eight and on his swing, he wants to stuff himself back into that dream right the hell now, because reality fucking _bites._

 

“Ray! Put your legs in the hammock. It’s time to go to sleep. Here, wrap up.”

 

Fraser’s bundling him all the way into the hammock and pushing a lot of blankets on top of him, and it’s kind of almost warm, now. Only he knows he really isn’t warm inside, he’s chilly, and Fraser’s voice sounded scared, now that he thinks about it, and that means Ray might actually be in trouble. It’s just that he’s too cold to concentrate on it.

 

He’s not sure concentrating would make any difference, anyway. He’s halfway up a mountain; he’s committed. Maybe he should _be _committed, but it’s kind of too late for that. Too late for everything, really. Nothing for it except to keep moving ahead, because there’s no going back.

 

There’s never been any going back, with Fraser, only moving forward, whether Ray’s ready for it or not. The stuff Ray’s been ready for and the stuff he hasn’t been quite ready for are blurring together, kind of melting together in his mind. He was ready for jumping off stuff, like buildings and piers and _planes_. He was ready, or he wasn’t, for jumping _into_ stuff, like Lake Michigan and ice fields and Fraser’s screwball ideas of justice…and Fraser’s Consulate hallway and Fraser’s Canada…and maybe Fraser’s future.

 

He’s not going back down the mountain the same way he came up, and he’s not backing out of this…this _thing_ he’s got going with Fraser, this thing that they don’t talk about but that is clearly, obviously there. It’s as obvious as a mountain in Canada, blocking your path. It’s big and icy and not the kind of thing you can pretend isn’t in your way.

 

There’s no way out except through.

 

If Ray lives long enough. Which, that right there is a problem, that’s a real problem, because there isn’t going to be any talking to Fraser about the _thing_ they got if Ray’s dead.

 

Ray figures it is way past time to start praying, but he might as well.

 

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” he says—and, cool, he remembers the words. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

 

The stars are real bright in his eyes, but he can see one thing pretty clearly: the gentle look in Fraser’s eyes, a look he’d like to see a lot of.

 

He wants to see that. Yeah, he _wants, _and to want something this bad when you’re clinging to the side of a mountain, halfway between life and death means that you’ve _got _to hang on. Ray’s kind of good at that.

 

Ray reaches out his hand and Fraser grabs hold of it. Squeezes tight, tighter. Then pushes it back under the blankets, telling Ray to keep covered, to stay warm, to rest. And lets him go.

 

Ray misses the touch of Fraser’s hand even though it was only through gloves, but their legs are pressing together along their sides. They got their clothes and the blankets and the hammocks between them, but he can still feel the solid warmth of Fraser’s leg. It’s enough for now, enough to let Ray settle down and start to doze.

 

He keeps his eyes open as long as he can, though, looking at Fraser, not wanting to let go of the sight. Starlight makes a weird ring of brightness around Fraser’s head, like a halo. Like maybe he’s an angel. Ray would never tell Fraser to his face, but sometimes he’s wondered.

 

Maybe Ray’s colder than he realized. He hallucinated the swingset; maybe he’s hallucinating the mountain. Maybe when he slipped, before, he really fell, and didn’t realize it, and now his spirit’s slipping free to fly up, up, beyond gravity’s clutch forever.

 

Maybe he’s already halfway up to heaven.

 

If Fraser’s with him, he thinks he’s okay with that.

 

 

—end—

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sprat in appreciation of her moderating and maintaining the Due South Seekrit Santa gift exchange, 2006.  
> The sequel is: [Hanging On](http://archiveofourown.org/works/57688).


End file.
